Winter again, that time of death and sleep. The trees are bare or sporting only the dry and desiccated reminders of the bright summer. Darkness is the order of the day, the night most prominently supported across the clock. Halloween is long past, the U.S. has just barely left Thanksgiving behind. Now comes one of those bright times in the long dark winter, Christmas. Only 24 shopping days left, less if you don't get to me the first day of publication.

Literary critics are always incredibly harsh on the horror genre. That is even if they will bother to think of it, let alone look at it. There are always exceptions, I don't want to slight those with the intelligence to break out of the mould. For the most part though the literary community thinks of horror as pretty much the gum on the bottom of their shoes. Just ask any English professor or critic about a horror novel and they will have something derogatory to say about it and the author.

In 1988, a year of big horror movies such as Halloween 4 with the return of Michael Myers, the blockbuster Beetlejuice, the splatterfest of Hellraiser II, and Wes Craven's most frightening vision, Serpent and the Rainbow, a new and lasting icon was born. Drawing upon deepest childhood fears, and the pure horrific power of effigies, came a new face. "Hi, I'm Chucky! Wanna play? Hidee-ho ha ha ha!" An apple-cheeked red headed doll that would be your child's friend to the end.

A heavy mantle of snow creaked and groaned upon the angle of the roof. The wind worried at its edges sending sheets of powdery snow swirling through the air. Ken pulled into the driveway and then thumbed the garage door remote. He hated opening the door until he was right there. (You never can tell if someone is going to slip in ahead of you and car jack you just feet from your door.) He waited for the door to trundle all the way up and then he pulled into the crowded little garage.

Warning: May be unsuitable for some readers. This story contains mature subject matter, disturbing situations, and coarse language. Reader Discretion is Advised.

Rain cascaded down the windows, and gusting winds buffeted the bus as it made its ways through the dreary day. Leaves flitted by and occasionally plastered themselves to the windows limiting the view of the street. It was a cold and miserable day. Larry sat at a sharp angle to Janice, his knee touching hers and his forearm on the seat behind her neck. He always sat like that. Too bad if he took up more space that way. If people didn't like it then they shouldn't sit behind him.

A boy witnesses the murder of his parents on Christmas Eve at the hands of a man in a Santa Suit. The boy, Billy, is put in an orphanage run by nuns and is given an incredibly strict sense of right and wrong. Billy grows up and shortly after he turns eighteen Sister Margaret gets him a job at the local toy store. When Billy is forced into the role of Santa Claus for the holiday season he snaps and goes on a spree of murder and mayhem.

Something unnatural is going on in the town of McGuane, Arizona. The return of Gregory Tomasov with his city family and his aged mother is heralded with a disorganised pattern of growing freakishness and bizarre deaths. His mother, superstitious and religious in equal measure, thinks that she knows what it going on but is afraid to be right. The old bathhouse in the back end of the property is inhabited by the shadow of something no longer really there, a hungry shadow that is tempting the kids.

Ben looked at the map and then at the front of the buildings. This was the right place. He pushed through the doors and then pulled out the map of the interior of the Physical Sciences building. Complex was more correctly what the place was. It covered way too much ground to be considered just a building. Ben looked around. The building, like so many others on the campus, had its own particular smell. This one smelled ever so slightly of age underneath the dust and the last flagging remains of floor cleaner scent.

It's the nature of the beast to enjoy giving ourselves what we want, and if that just happens to be vengeance or justice, then all the better. Nothing brings more satisfaction than getting what we think we deserve. Or for those less selfish, other people getting what they deserve. Satisfaction is definitely the most driving motivation of the horror genre. It drives the audience. We have a need, a desire, to feel certain emotions that we do not have proper access to in our real lives.

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